CHAPTER II

Nightcrawler

Four days earlier…


Cuffing a hand against the bitter wind, Booker DeWitt dips his head, bringing the tip end of his cigarette to the small flame sprung from his lighter. Getting the tip red hot, he inhales a douse of tobacco, savoring the heated taste in his mouth before relaxingly expelling the smoke through his nostrils. Flicking the lighter off, he stashed it away in his coat pocket and took his gaze to the hazy skyline of Nar Shaddaa.

The city of neon and technicolor was tainted in its permanent, sickly veil of yellow haze and was busy as usual. Overhead, high in the sky above the towering stratoscrapers, hundreds, possibly thousands of aero vehicles zipping in any given direction. A spider web of confusion, oddly enough possessing some sense of order to it all. A similar feeling transpires down here on the surface of this polluted, overpopulated world. People had a sense of order…of right and wrong, to a degree, but then there were those people… the bad apples that stick out amongst the ambiguity. The type of people who embody everything civilized society repulses. Those people made Booker the man he is today… a man who wasn't afraid to cross that threshold into the abyss. It was his job, of course, but it seemed like each and every day, that bottomless pit of immorality in which sentient life digs, seems to get deeper and deeper.

Remaining unobtrusive as possible, Booker maintained a hard eye on his target. He stood at the perimeter of a bustling bazaar. Every known alien species of the galaxy shuffled in large crowds through the makeshift merchant stands, speaking in a jumbled mess of languages and dialects, shuffling down throughways. The homeless—which made up nearly half of Nar-Shaddaa's population—sat on the dusty roads, backs against the walls of buildings clear out of the way of passer-byers. Booker does his best to intermix within the crowds to the point that he just becomes another invisible face.

Occasionally, a strong gust of near freezing winds would strafe through the streets, kicking up dust, trash… the smell of shit from the backup sanitation systems. Booker simply ducked his head low, holding a firm hand on top his hard-felt hat on his head, preventing it from blowing off and winding up in some jackass hustler's possession to steal.

Armed robberies, muggings and gang violence were as frequent as the everyday night-cycle on Nar Shaddaa. It happened anytime of the day, anywhere, to anyone. Booker made sure all his belongings were tucked away inside his jacket and tossed out a hardened vibe to any would-be-robber to screw off. He didn't have to worry too much about it… because he was packing one hell of a personal arsenal.

He had a Power 5, Elite Type stashed in a holster just under his left armpit for easy access. Along with the P5, he carried an additional set of pistols: two DL-6H's. Strictly illegal to possess in most systems, due to their easy concealment and devastating firepower, Booker didn't have an issue at all in obtaining them on Nar Shaddaa.

Picking the brim of his hat up, Booker's eyes landed on the back of his trial: a male weequay wearing a jacket marked with an easily identifiable insignia on the back. Booker has been trailing this guy all day through the markets, down crowded streets, and through it all, he was beginning to wonder if he'd been made. Because the weequay hasn't been doing shit besides walking randomly around this dense city, only having one holo-chat to someone Booker couldn't identity. He guessed that it was a friend due to the weequay's occasional laughter and body language. But after that, the guy has been wandering around this bazaar for nearly three standard hours.

At first, Booker though he was wasting his time, that his Intel was off. But then that other part of his mind began to start working, the patient side. It became clear to Booker that the weequay was killing time, in preparation for an upcoming job heading his way. He was what people in the Outer Rim call a 'squalor,' which out here held the meaning of hunter or spotter. In plain Basic, he's the guy slavers paid to seek out potential kidnap victims to feed their barbaric organization that fuels Nal Hutta's economy along with other corrupted worlds. Slavery is strongly forbidden… anywhere near or inside the Core Systems or within the gridlocked veil of Imperial Space, that is. Out here on Nar Shaddaa and the Outer Rim, it ran amuck, and anyone of any age, race or gender could be targeted.

The weequay, calling himself Shrahbi was good at what he did. He was charismatic, played the everyday-man down to the hilt, even helped an elderly ithorian woman cross the street with a fringed smile plastered across that rouged face of his. But Booker knew what kind of man he was… more importantly who he was in cahoots with.

Remember that bottomless pit? That deep, dark pit of immorality sentient life forever digs… this guy's hugging that abyss. Or the people he's working with are, at least. However far south this weequay's moral compass points, Booker doesn't really give a crap. He just knows that he's on to something—something that he hopes will be that last fitting piece to a fifteen year puzzle he's so desperately been trying to solve.

Booker's trail came to a sudden abrupt halt, standing in the middle of the throughway. Booker forced himself to stop, then instinctively straddles out the middle of the street until he's standing on the crumbling sidewalk. Shrahbi's back was still to him and he was sure the alien isn't even a hair aware of his presence. Though oddly enough, the weequay does take a nervous look around, out of the blue really. Booker studies the alien carefully, searching for any indication in his body language that something ticked him off.

After a tense moment, Shrahbi brought his arm up parallel to his face and his lips begin moving. He was having another holo-chat, only this time he didn't look so at ease. Squinting his eyes, and shifting the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, Booker's attention became fully devoted on this one singular man. All the noise, the hundreds of moving bodies around him become shallow to his senses. It's like a spotlight was shined on Shrahbi while the rest of Nar Shaddaa hid behind a black curtain.

The weequay's body language became antsy—shoulders bobbing sporadically—radical hand gestures and anxious facial expressions paints a picture in Booker's mind that charismatic Shrahbi's world was crashing down on him.

Yet Booker knew what was really going on. The weequay had a debt on his head… a rival gang he and his group of buddies had pissed off somewhere across the line. Their numbers were dropping fast and Shrahbi was among the last still breathing on Nar Shaddaa, which was why Booker had kept tabs on him. However, the thoughts vanish from Booker's mind at the same time Shrahbi does. The weequay straddled quickly out of sight, disappearing into the masses of shifting crowds of the street.

"Shit!" Booker uttered, dropping his cigarette from his mouth. It's the last thing on his mind as he breaks into a brisk jog, brushing people aside as he moved to Shrahbi's last know location. When he got there, a pit develops in Booker's stomach.

His eyes frantically searched for the alien, spinning in circles—reading every face close and far. None registered, and this pit grows into icy fear clinging to Booker's heart.

"No—no—no... I can't lose em'—I can't lose em'."

Panic quickly took hold of Booker. All that hard work of tracking, of planning… all of it down the drain. Just as he was about to curse the heavens for his misfortunate, his eyes spotted that familiar jacket. He got the weequay back in his sight, walking fast down a narrow alley, leading away from the markets.

Booker took off after his trial, roughly shoving a male twi'lek out his way, earning a spiteful remark directed at him from the alien. Booker didn't even hear what was said, the only thing on his mind was catching up to Shrahbi before he loses the guy again.

Cutting down a busy intersection, Booker gets eyes on his target a few dozen meters ahead of him. Shrahbi looked to be moving towards the favela, a notorious district known for its bloody gang wars that leave scores of thugs but mostly innocent civilians dead. Booker doesn't even think twice of that fact, he just keeps on Shrahbi's ass hoping the alien would slow down.

The weequay leaps a crumbling barrier that separates the favela from the market district. Booker, hot on his heels leaps over the barrier only to be caught off guard by the two meter drop off right into a garbage piled trench.

Hearing the nosy ruckus, Shrahbi, who was halfway down the alleyway, stopped and pivots around. His dark, beady eyes barely seeable in the darkness of the alley, though they connect with Booker's. It was in that split second moment that a shocked look spread across his face and he took off running at full speed.

"Damnit DeWitt!" Booker cursed himself, struggling to crawl up out of the garbage pile. Back on his feet, Booker bursts into a sprint after his target. The rough contours of the alley blast pass Booker's vision, the putrid stench of air rushing over his face as he struggled to keep on Shrahbi. A side stitch began to tighten in Boooker's side and the dank air invaded his lungs. Weequay are lighter than humans and have great stamina due to evolving on a world with a thin atmosphere. If Booker's gonna catch this guy, he'll have to get him at a chokepoint. The weequay may have an advantage of knowing the terrain, but Booker was semi-confident that he'll screw up somewhere along the line. For one, the favela was full of dead ends—shooting galleries the numerous street gangs use to execute rivals in. It'd be fitting if he caught his target there.

Rushing up dirt inclines, pivoting around sharp corners and sliding under wooden posts, Booker lost his hat at one point, not thinking twice of the item now insignificant in the face of his greater goal. Sweat pouring down his face, despite the coldness of the air, Booker struggles to keep up with Shrahbi. The slippery bastard hasn't screwed up yet, which means it has to be up to Booker to make sure that he did.

Panting his breath, Booker looked up at a ladder leading up to a scaffold system that stood over the shanty houses in the vicinity. If he's lucky enough, he could get a good vantage point as to where Shrahbi had ran off to. Liking the idea, Booker jumps up the ladder, climbing up the prongs until he makes it to the top. The scaffold is rigidly, blowing in the wind.

He's able to make out well over a few blocks, but his visibility was limited by that overhanging hazy that dominates every inch of Nar Shaddaa. There, up ahead, Booker spotted the slippery bastard, tripping over a trashcan near a slumped shanty house up ahead. Only he has company, a trio of men, rather teenagers to be more precise, tread right on Shrahbi's heels. The teens gang up on the weequay, roughly snatching him up off the ground, lifting him by the jacket collar and pinning him on a nearby wall.

With the odds back in his direction, Booker slid down the ladder back to the ground, hustling after his target before he ends up with a shank in his side.

It didn't take long for Booker to reach the location where the teens where mugging Shrahbi. He came to the mouth of the alleyway, knelling low and drawing his Power 5. He didn't see any reason in using lethal force, so he sets the pistol to stun. Taking a breath, Booker stepped from around the wall and briskly approached the gang of kids, who were hitting and kicking the shit out of Shrahbi in the mud. Even from his ever closing distance, Booker was able to hear the thudding blows striking the weequay along with Shrahbi grunts of pain. He would've hung back, let the kids get a few more hits in the guy, but then he saw that one of the kids, a pale skinned zabrak, had a blaster stuffed in the back of his trousers.

When he got close enough to the trio, Booker hollered out, "hey!"

His shout immediately drew the trios' attention and Booker fired first, hitting the zabrak with a stun ring from his Power 5. The horned kid dropped like a rock, his counterparts stood stun for a split second before they began to reach into their pants to draw their weapons.

Before either cracked off a bolt, Booker quickly dropped to one knee and tapped the trigger twice. Both fell limp to the dirt.

Swallowing a breath, Booker came back standing and approached Shrabhi curled up in a ball of agony, covered in a layer of mud and his own blood. Booker held his aim at the weequay as he made sure the three teens were really out, nudging each of their unconscious bodies with his foot.

Satisfied, Booker brought his attention back on the incapacitated weequay and said sarcastically, "you can thank me later."


Booker had Shrahbi cuffed to a chair and his legs bounded to the chair-legs with cables. The weequay sneered a bloody grimace from his battered face as Booker turned to face him.

"You know who I am?" Booker questioned, his voice carried shallowly in the abandoned warehouse. There wasn't a soul near or far and most of the warehouse had been demolished, leaving an entire corner of the main structure's roof swiped from existence, allowing the smoggy night sky to show.

Shrahbi remained stubbornly silent, gleaming a look of contempt, though Booker could tell the weequay was nervous due to his rapid breathing.

"Well, I know who you are," Booker said, removing his jacket and revealing his hidden arsenal of weapons strapped about his torso. "I know of the things you've done." He folds his jacket in his arms, then sets it on a nearby table along with Shrahbi's belongings including a vibroblade rested.

"So how about we make this entre thing easier for the both of us and you tell me what I want." He slid his fingers along the suspenders that made up the holsters and stood in front of Shrahbi. "The people you work for…who are they?"

Again, the weequay says nothing, almost like holding his breath. Booker had a sense that the weequay knew why he was in the position he was in. It's too bad the sly bastard had wiped his holo-pad clean, this entire interrogation would've been over with before it even began. But Booker anticipated the weequuay wouldn't be dumb enough to leave a digital trail linking back to the major perpetrators Booker was after. So it was the hard way—like always.

In Shrahbi's defiant silence, Booker sighed, rubbing a thumb at his lower lip. He did his best to hide his annoyance and growing anger from getting the better of him. Booker had no problem using torture as a means to get what he wants, especially on a piece of shit like Shrahbi. But he was semi convinced that the weequay had enough sense in that messed up head of his to just use his damn words.

"Com'on, just give me a name—a race even…" Booker pressed on.

Nothing from the alien, but a hard glare. Forcing his hand, Booker knew simple words weren't going to cook this wamp rat.

Expelling a tired breath, Booker reached into his pants pocket, drawing out his personal holo-pad. He configured the palm size device's screen until the image of a family filled the screen. He then toggled a button which sprung the image of the family in the display of a free floating hologram.

"How's about this?" Booker challenged, setting his holo-pad down on the floor. He allowed Shrahbi to absorb the image of the smiling Human mother, father… infant daughter set between them. "This jog your memory?!"

The hardened expression on Shrahbi's face turned into one of anxiousness. All of a sudden he remembered how to speak again.

"Neva seen dem in ma lyfe," the weequay uttered in horrible Basic. "Why you showin' me dis, guy?"

"I'm asking you—and I ain't your guy, pal," Booker said in a bolstering tone. Once a slight pause came between his words, Booker continued, "look at the picture again. That happy family you see was literally torn apart mere months ago by the people you're working for. Mom and dad had their throats slit and their six month old daughter taken from them!"

He lets the words sink in, watching Shrahbi for any reaction. The weequay doesn't even stifle a muscle in that beat-up face of his. Finally, Shrahbi shrugged weakly and uttered blankly, "and?"

Gritting his teeth, Booker marched up on Shrahbi—distorting the image of the young couple as he walked through the hologram. With a clenched fist, Booker stopped himself from breaking the bastard's jaw… knowing it'll make it hard for Shrahbi to talk. Instead, Booker took a few steps back, easing his fingers and the anger inside him.

"Don't make this harder for yourself," Booker said in a warning tone. "You will give me a name right now or I swear to whatever God you pray to—I'll break every damn bone in your body."

At first Shrahbi looked genially surprised, before gasping a dry, nervous laugh. "You ain't gonna do shit, human," he boldly proclaimed. "If you knew the guys I'm connected with…" the alien shakes his head, then looked up to Booker wearing a wry grin. "The things they'll do ta you—boy… make you wish you hadn't crossed me."

Booker actually laughed next, knowing the weequay was going to act like he had all the weight here. When in fact, Booker knew his words where just empty bluffs.

"Funny," Booker laughed, "now I would've taken your word seriously if any of your connections were still breathing." Shrahbi's grin immediately dropped. "Yeah, I know what happened to your friends. How they were skinned alive and left to die." Booker shook his head, coughing a laugh. "Man, I'll run like hell too if I knew that was gonna happen to me next."

"Screw you, human," Shrahbi mutters. "Screw you and your family!"

Booker went numb momentarily when the weequay uttered that. He didn't allow Shrahbi's words to penetrate too deeply, he was the one in control here, not him. Instead, he changed the subject altogether, bringing focus back to this interrogation and keeping his anger in check which ate away at him ever so slightly.

"So these people you're with… they paid you to stoke out families like these right? Families that had children no older than a year old."

"I ain't tellin' you shit!" Shrahbi shouted. "Who do you think you are, huh? Interrogating me—and for what?! I've already told you I don't know who the hell these people are in this picture! So, guy, how's 'bout you—AHHHHH!"

The sound of the Power 5 discharging is drowned out by Shrahbi's screams. Booker had shot the weequay in the kneecap, blasting a chunk of flesh clean off.

"Told'cha, I'm not your guy," Booker said, even though he's sure Shrahbi didn't hear him. Blaster in hand, Booker approached his captive, shoving the hot barrel of the weapon against the alien's cheek.

"So let's try this again," Booker said through grit teeth. "You give up a name, or I'll blow your head back."

Against all the pain he must be feeling, Shrahbi wheezing coughed. "Go ahead, I'ma dead man either way." The weequay lifted his head, despite the Power 5 hard on his cheek and looked Booker right in the eye with those dark, orbed eyes. "Just do me a favor… and pull that trigger."

Booker felt his eye quiver and his pulse heat up. He was about done with Shrahbi. Even if he tortured him, he knew it won't get him anywhere. Just by looking in the alien's eye he knew he was dealing with a man who had cornered himself with death.

"I spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing these people," Booker said, mostly to himself than to Shrahbi. "But I could last a little bit longer, I'm patient like that." Under his breath he muttered, "I'm sorry, Ann." Just as his finger tightened around the trigger, a light, feminine voice from behind grabbed Booker by surprise.

"You're wasting your time with him."

Booker swerved around, his eyes caught the silhouette of a humanoid figure approaching his way. The backdrop of Nar Shaddaa's hazy night glow shrouded any features Booker could make out of this person, who seemingly came out of nowhere.

"Who are you?" Booker question, readying his pistol in front of him.

"Someone like you," came the woman's narrow reply.

She continued towards him, Booker raised his weapon halfway. "Alright—that's close enough…" he dropped his sentence short when the woman came fresh into his view.

She looked younger than she sounded, Booker first thought. Her skin was a burnt orange, absorbing the shadows casted by the last few standing walls of the destroyed warehouse. Her face was marked up with elaborate tattoos, however the most noticeable feature of her form was the pair of head-tails that fell medium length pass her shoulders. She wasn't human for one—twi'lek perhaps… or something else, it really didn't matter. But the look in her eye told Booker that she wasn't shocked in the least of the weapon in his hand, nor the violence he had unleashed on Shrahbi who was still panting breaths of pain.

"You've been following me?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in the way you think," the young woman said. "But I know you're after the same thing I am."

She sounded sure of herself, Booker thought. The way she held herself registered that she wasn't just saying things. Still, she looked way too innocent to be in any position that Booker's in.

"Is that so?" Booker said with a cynical grin. "Then if you know any better, you'll run-on back home to your boyfriend before you end up getting yourself hurt."

He turned his back to her, missing the smirk biting away at the corner of her mouth.

"I know about the kidnappings," she said.

Booker's blood ran cold and he twisted back around facing her.

"Throughout the Outer Rim…" she went on. "All infants… no older than a year old…"

"How do you know this?" Booker asked, quickly stepping up to her, his tone sounding desperate but he didn't care. He was desperate for answers. "Who are you?"

Before the young woman could further elaborate, Booker saw her eyes shift behind him, looking in Shrahbi's direction.

Booker turned on his heels starring back at the weequay who managed to free a hand from his cuffs—he's possibly been working at it ever since Booker turned his back. Yet what really shocked Booker was the small blaster that somehow found its way in the alien's grip.

"Drop it!" Booker demanded, aiming his weapon for the weequay. "Don't be stupid, Shrahbi—drop the gun right—"

Shrahbi's blaster went off… only in a flicker of a micro-second, the weequay's aiming arm suddenly flung outward and the red blaster bolt meant for Booker arks out wildly, impacting something in the shadows.

Fueling off pure adrenaline in response to the shot, Booker dropped to the floor and fired a fatal bolt at Shrahbi. The shot from his Power 5 blew an orange hot hole through the weequay's chest. He uttered an abrupt yelp, his body twitched for a moment before collapsing limp in the chair.

An immediate flood of silences engulfed the demolished building. Momentarily stunned, Booker blinked several times before standing back to his feet and stared at Shrahbi's limp body. The alien's eyes were wide open, so was his mouth, a river of yellowish blood poured out the glowing hot hole in his chest.

"Was that really necessary?" The young woman standing behind him asked incredulously.

Booker twisted his torso around, responding to her shocked expression with a nonchalant shrug. "Aye, he shot first," he said, brushing a layer of dust off his shirt sleeve.

"Is this how you solve all your problems?" She questioned. "With blaster bolts?"

"If it keeps me alive…" Booker began to say, turning to face her disgusted expression. "And if what you said was true about going after the perps behind these abductions… then you better catch on quick, doll."

Her bitter expression became even sourer when Booker chimed that last word. Just when Booker thought she'd take the bait and lash out over it, the tension in her body eased as she inhaled a quick breath.

"You don't even know the first thing about these people, do you?" She said, more like a challenge.

"Apparently you do," Booker said back. "And you're going to tell me what you know." He crept towards her, towering over her small physique, blaster still in hand. "Right now."

He studied her expression carefully, expecting to see a bit of fear behind those eyes of hers. He saw none. In fact she crept a thin, genial smile as she folded her arms.

"Not here, not yet," she said with the shake of her head. "It isn't the right time."

"There's never a right time for anything," Booker said, his tone colder than he intended. "You either get to talking now or—"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" She countered, dropping a contemptuous stare.

Booker said nothing in return. He wasn't going to shoot anyone, let alone some spunky kid thinking she can handle the things he's seen and been through. Instead, he sighed stepping back and holstered his Power 5.

"Alright," he sighed flaring his arms out. "So if now isn't a good place then where is?"

"Tomorrow afternoon—Dracanna Plaza," she said. "You want to stop these abductions, you'll meet me there."

Now normally, Booker wouldn't agree to follow through with such a rendezvous. For one, he has no idea in hell who this kid's supposed to be nor how she seems to be on top of everything. For all he knows this could be a trap—set by the very people he's after. But if that's true, then they'll be leading him towards them and he still gets one step closer into finding the people responsible for all the pain's he's suffered for fifteen years. If he survives, that is.

Keeping his face neutral as that thought came through his mind, Booker simply nodded his head, then said, "sounds good—how will I know you're there when I arrive?"

She had a look as if she was suppressing a laugh then said, "just make sure you aren't late." And with that, she turned and began to exit out the way she so quietly came in.

Booker watched her out before uttering after her, "I'm DeWitt by the way—Booker DeWitt!"

Once his echo had faded, and the woman was more than halfway out the destroyed complex, she called back, "Ahsoka."